There's a revelatory moment in every budding romantic relationship, one that the players inevitably exploit to their full advantage. It's the first time you find yourself alone in the home of your would-be beloved, and you can snoop. And judge.
For this cook, such a pivotal occasion took place 15 years ago, in the kitchen belonging to the guy whom I now have the great good fortune of calling my husband.
While Robert retrieved a forgotten ingredient from the corner store, I finally availed myself of the opportunity to peruse, unobserved, his cookbook collection. What would the various titles reveal about his character?
As it turned out, plenty. There was a ratty copy of "The Silver Palate Cookbook," a clear indication he'd been throwing dinner parties, and lots of them, for years. So far, so good.
Flipping through a church cookbook from his tiny Wisconsin hometown, I discovered a number of recipes submitted by his mother. Aw, sweet.
"The Complete Armenian Cookbook" signaled a pride in his family's heritage, an exotic draw for this white-bread Scandinavian. This is getting better all the time, I remember thinking.
And then, an oddity: "The Joy of Cheesecake."
Huh? I remember rolling my eyes. Cheesecake? Really? It ranks among my least favorite desserts — so ponderous, so one-note — and here was an entire cookbook devoted to the subject. Yikes. I couldn't help but add a demerit to his PHM (Potential Husband Material) score.